


History Marked By Our Scars

by maggottsbecketts



Category: MotoGP RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 16:44:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8109943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maggottsbecketts/pseuds/maggottsbecketts
Summary: Valentino only has to wait. Based around the press conference comments at Misano.





	

Valentino knows that all he has to do is wait. He should get tired of it, this endless game, but it's what still keeps him going after all these years, the chess match of one upmanship and strategy, always being one step ahead. For other riders, it might be purely the racing, but for Valentino, it's never been _just_ about the racing.

"Maybe you should go," he tells Uccio, who makes no move to leave. He looks back at Valentino, and doesn't need to speak, because Valentino knows exactly what he's thinking. "You should go," Valentino repeats, and Uccio shakes his head, turning and walking out of the motor home without a backwards glance.

Valentino unzips his leathers, dragging his arms out and letting the top hang down behind him, heavy as it pulls on his hips. He's already hard, just from the anticipation, and he's tempted to touch himself, get started, but he knows it will only be that much better if he's patient.

But it seems patience is unnecessary, because it's only a few minutes before he hears someone stamping up the stairs of the motorhome, each footfall as forcefully petulant as a tantruming child.

Valentino sits down, hastily arranging himself on the couch with his legs spread wide, leaning back enough to emphasize the pose, careful to appear as casual as possible.

"What do you think you're doing?" Jorge says, standing in front of him, arms folded.

Valentino smiles in reply, throwing up his hands. "I don't know what you're talking about," he replies, feigning innocence as baldly as he dares.

"Come the fuck on," Jorge spits, eyes alight with rage. "Don't fucking pretend."

"You're angry," says Valentino, nodding seriously. "Frustrated? Yes?"

Jorge's lips are thin and pale, his jaw set square, and it's far too easy, Valentino thinks, to get him riled up like this, but that doesn't in any way lessen the pleasure of it. 

He stands up, bridging the distance between them with short, decisive steps.

"Look at you," he says, quietly, but the words are amplified by the atmosphere of the room, heavy and charged. "So tense." Valentino toys with the zip of Jorge's leathers for a moment before sliding it slowly downwards. "It's not good for you, you know?"

"Shut up," Jorge mutters, scowling, but he doesn't resist, not even when Valentino shifts behind him, pulling Jorge's leathers away from his upper body. Jorge shrugs his arms out without protest, silent now.

Valentino grasps Jorge's shoulders with firm hands, guiding him towards the couch, pushing him down so that he's bent over the padded side arm, hands braced and head pressed into the cushions, his ass in the air.

"You just need to relax, Jorge," Valentino murmurs, saying it as he always does, _Yor-gay_ , enjoying the reflexive twitch of irritation he feels course through Jorge's body at the mispronunciation. But he doesn't stop, shoving Jorge's leathers and underwear out of the way.

"Relax," Valentino says, kneeling behind him, hands rough on Jorge's ass as he parts the firm rounds of it, exposing the cleft, mouth wet with anticipation as he leans in. 

The taste is bitter, rank with the sweat and exertion of the race, but Valentino likes it that way, the basest of desires. Jorge's hole is tightly clenched, and Valentino runs his tongue over it, circling and teasing, slow and steady, feeling Jorge gradually begin to open up, hungry for it. 

By the time Valentino stops, Jorge's squirming underneath his attentions, ass practically grinding back up against Valentino's mouth, and Valentino's tempted to keep going until Jorge starts to beg, just for the delight of seeing him reduced to further humiliation, but it's already been too long.

There's a condom and lube set out nearby, so Valentino prepares himself quickly, squeezing out the slickly wet substance over his sheathed cock and then lining himself up behind Jorge, ready.

And even now, there's the smallest resistance, Jorge tightening as he tries to push in, but Valentino rests his hand in the small of Jorge's back, fingers splayed, waiting for a minute. He hears Jorge take a deep breath, and then he nods briefly, back over his shoulder, and Valentino tries again.

This time, he slides in smoothly, feeling Jorge hot around him, and he begins to thrust in earnest, building up until he's moving without thought or care, slamming in with as much force as he can. But Jorge takes it, shifting enough to get one hand underneath himself, shoulder moving as he rubs his cock.

They come at almost the same time, Valentino making certain to grip Jorge's hips hard enough to leave marks, Jorge's ass tensing and releasing around Valentino as he finishes, warmth flooding through him like water, deep and calm.

He pulls out, slumping down onto the couch, and Jorge stands, pulling his leathers up, zipping them. His mouth is red, face flushed. "Why do you have to do that?" he asks.

"What?" Valentino asks, not understanding.

"In the press conference, why do you have to be such an asshole?"

Valentino smiles. "You're a better fuck when you're angry." He pauses, just long enough to make it sting that much more when he adds, "But not a better rider."

"Fuck you," Jorge replies, but there's no passion in the retort, simply resignation and what seems like sadness. _He knows_ , Valentino thinks. He knows it's the truth.

"See you in Aragon," Valentino says as Jorge turns to leave, but there's no answer.


End file.
